


Letters of Strange Tenor

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Backstory, Epistolary, Letters, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exiled to the University of Graz in Austria, Mercutio writes letters home.</p><p> <i>Mine own Tybalt, if I may still call thee so,</i></p><p>  <i>I am in such an agony of boredom that I have resorted to study. I can hear you now, as if you were here, rumpling my blankets without regard for their order and glowering at me about duty until I must stop your mouth or smother you with a pillow.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters of Strange Tenor

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect Mercutio and Tybalt are fairly young in this - likely mid-teens. There's an implied sexual relationship, and Mercutio sex-puns all over the place, but there's no explicit sex.
> 
> Cheers to drcalvin for help finding an old enough Catholic university.

_Unto the most trusty and right honourable lord Tybalt of the House of Capulet does Mercutio of the House of Escalus send greetings._

Being exiled into these Styrian wastes by the wise judgment of my most noble lord uncle the Prince, I do beseech your patience in reading these few humble words of my pen and perhaps answering them in kind, and hope that this missive finds you and your good family safe and at peace under God's protection.

God's blood, what rot flows from my pen. Well, my uncle may not say I am a barbarian, and neither may you, if you have not already fallen asleep from boredom without my company to amuse. I fear in my absence that you will grow complacent as an old tabby lying in front of the kitchen fire, fat on scraps and dreaming of the great fights of his youth, the juicy rats and yowling queens his arthritic legs can no longer chase. You need me to keep your claws sharp, my King of Cats, and to soothe your hackled fur anon.

Let me not write that I miss you; nay, rather I will write that I know you miss me, although you would not say it, but only growl. Graz is drear; the rains are constant; the beer sour; the society tedious; the professors dull; the students no comparison to mine old company. There is a most peculiar expectation of study. What could I learn here that I have not already learned at the knee of our own dear Father Laurence, that holy old sinner and man of science?

I can hear you now, frowning at me, as if you were not his favorite petitioner, your confession of your every venal sin so earnest that he might tell himself it is merely his holy duty to listen to each tale of lust and remorse, that he may better grant you absolution. Have you confessed to him yet what last we did, that day by the river before I left? You looked a terrible creature, with your hair crackling about you like a stormcloud, your mouth...

Ah, never let it be said that Mercutio is maudlin. You were terrible that day; that is all. Only write back one line, for I know you have little liking for correspondence:

Art thou well?

I remain as always in faith, although I be only mine own and cannot write “thy,” no other than

Mercutio

* * *

_Unto the very tall and very good blade of the House of Capulet does the foremost wit and whoremonger of Escalus—or so it is said I am, although I am myself but modest and would not brag—send greetings in this place of exile._

Mine own Tybalt, if I may still call thee so,

I am in such an agony of boredom that I have resorted to study. I can hear you now, as if you were here, rumpling my blankets without regard for their order and glowering at me about duty until I must stop your mouth or smother you with a pillow. 

I assure you, it is only to avoid the company of my dear cousin Paris, who grows ever more insufferable by the day. You would like him: a right windy fellow, which you are not, but likewise fixed upon that cold sovereign mistress Duty. Despite this air of respectability, of course, he is a perverse and sordid creature, quite acquainted with all wickedness that may be found in wine or poppy or women, or between the hard thighs of a pretty youth; the difference between you and he is that he does not bother to feel any shame for his perversions, and thus he enjoys them more. You are alike in priggishness, but I find I cannot hold it against you as I do him; perhaps it is only that you did not steal my wooden sword when we were children and pretend you knew it not, but rather beat me for it and took the spoils as due the victor. There's a spice to conquering, and to being conquered; if you would but taste it once, I'd make you a pagan convert and you would crave no other dish.

The roof of my lodgings leaks when the wind blows westerly, and there are bats in the attic, always a-squeak every dawn and dusk. I am no lawyer, and my bed is cold; I'd not touch these fish-bellied Saxon wenches if they paid me. 

In truth, I thought mine uncle would have relented by autumn, but now it is nigh winter; he writes—well, his secretary writes—to enquire of my studies, and not even to me but to the provost, a stickler for his Latin and as much a terror with his red ink as he is gentle in speech. My best hope is to convince him that I am not suited for school, and pray that he weigh this more heavily than mine uncle’s gold. Alas, since I am not a praying man, I must seek more earthly persuasion.

But it is not as if it will be any use; how much must mine uncle have wanted me gone, to exile me here amongst these cold-blooded Austrian accountants? Noble Paris, of course, considers it an investment in his German, and scarcely attends lectures, but spends his time drinking with every merchant who passes through, writing down who brings amber from the Baltic and furs from Russia, and no doubt what each man prefers in liquor and whores. The fellow’s mind is a ledger, virtue and vice all neatly itemized and subtotaled, the scales balanced at the end of every month. Nay: mine uncle hopes that by some terrible alchemy, Graz may transmute me to a matching Hector, responsible and grave of mien. 

I know you cannot visit. I know you would not if you could. Yet in my heart there is no dearer wish: we left too much undone ere we parted, thou and I.

Mercutio

* * *

Tybalt, Tybalt, thou ill-named creature, I swear I'll lose the use of mine own left hand afore another month is out. I tried last week to seek other company. As you told me with the clarity of a glass, we've made no vows to each other, and I'm certain sure you would be passing displeased if through self-abuse I made myself of no use to you, my use being another topic on which you were most clear.

At any rate, I had him in the hayloft of the barn, a boy from my astronomy lectures, or tried to. You would have thought him handsome and never admitted it: a strapping fellow, scholarship lad; his father's some kind of tradesman. But such a head of curls—dark for a German, but not so dark as an Italian lad—and such a sweet smile, all fun and mischief. Even you would crack a smile in return, my dour friend.

I had his shirt off and my hand down his hose—a good handful he was, too (don't scowl, Tybalt; you have no right to be jealous)—and my face pressed against his throat, my mouth to his pulse. Ah, there is a special pleasure in the smell of a man's honest sweat, in the taste of salt on his skin; think you otherwise? Well, perhaps it is a pleasure you have yet to taste, as stingy with your mouth as you are. I don't know why, for you have a beautiful mouth, or you would if you did not scowl all the time. Stop scowling. Were I there I'd coax you into laughter. I’d slide my hands up your chest, lightly as a feather, and you would try to frown at me, but you would not be able to hold your countenance, not when I bent to kiss your breast, to run my thumbs over your nipples—so rosy pink, like a woman's. You would gasp instead; you would put your hands in my hair, and I wouldn't know if you were pulling me closer or pushing me away.

This is a thing I often wonder about thee.

But I was writing of the lad in the hayloft.

The truth of it is, I didn't want to after all, so I didn't. I can hear you scoff—Mercutio, turning away from such sport? In truth I scarcely believe it of myself, and yet it is what happened. He took it in good grace, but even if he didn't, I don't give a shit what anyone here thinks of me. I won't fret over what every man might think of me, as Paris does. As you do. 

Thou hast ruined me; I dream of thee at night, and in my dreams thou dost kiss me, thou dost touch me, thou dost—

I want no one else.

I want to strip you bare on the riverbank, when the grass is dry and warm with the sun, before summer grows too hot. I would kiss you until you ceased your scowling, until your eyes closed and you grew soft and pliant under my hands; I can be generous with my mouth. You would know it already, if—at any rate, I can provide references. Mercutio’s mouth is hot as hellfire and slick as a woman’s cunny; he’s as clever with his tongue as a lawyer, but more useful. There. What man would say nay to that?

And when you had reached your peak and lay there a-tremble, all long pale limbs and loose dark hair, wild as some sprite of the woods, ah, then I’d spread your thighs. Perhaps you would smile at me, content at last; you would know I meant you no harm, no shame—I know not shame, after all, you have told me so often enough—only pleasure. I’d be gentle, my Tybalt, if thou asked it of me; or wild if that were thy will.

And after—well. There is too much true sentiment in that for me to commit to paper; I’d not even think it if I were not presently too deep in my cups for my prick to stand, else I’d be spending my thoughts of you with my own good left hand and not with pen and paper. At any rate, you would laugh at me, that strange laugh you have with so little humor in it. Why should Mercutio care, Mercutio the clown, who makes merry of himself that other men might laugh? Well. It is only this: I do not mind it when men laugh at Mercutio the clown—why, with you, I even mark it a great victory to bring a laugh to your lips—but I do not think I could bear it if—

Nay, I jest. I can bear anything; Mercutio has no true feelings, after all, for he is constructed of bluster and jest. This all men know. It would be but a pleasing diversion, our encounter on the riverbank, no more.

~~I wish thou wouldst write.~~

Mercutio

* * *

_Unto the most faithless of friends, the lowest of scoundrels, Tybalt of the House of Capulet, does Mercutio of the House of Escalus send ~~greetings~~_

Nay, you deserve not such courtesies. I cannot even call you a dog, for a dog would show more loyalty to one who had courted him with such kindness. Months I have been here, because of you, because of what we did together—and you may pretend to your uncle and mine that it was I who led you astray, but you know yourself that you were as willing as I. And yet, instead of standing with me, instead of taking your punishment like a man, you fled it, you retreated into that heartless cage of propriety you use to shield yourself from your own desire. You are a coward, Tybalt of the Capulets, and for all your blather of loyalty no more than a faithless Judas.

Yet I would have forgiven you, if you had written. If it was only a moment of fear, if you swore that in truth you still loved me (I know now why you laughed so bitterly when I said it; why you never returned the words). But I, oh, I who was fool enough to think that you saw more to me than Mercutio the clown, that you understood the truth beneath my jests and heard the words in my heart—well, perhaps you did, and simply cared nothing for them. It does not signify now. Does your imprisonment treat you kindly? Do you find joy in being no more than a living blade, a vicious guard dog to attack your aunt’s enemies, with no more reward than a pat from her hand and a few scraps? You told me once you’d dreamed of something more, yet now you’d cage yourself forever in exchange for them pretending they have not always scorned you.

If you'd any courtesy in you, you'd rot in Hell.

* * *

_Unto his most trusty and well-beloved friend Romeo Montague does Mercutio of the House of Escalus send greetings._

My dear and faithful friend,

I still cannot express the joyous shock I felt at your unexpected visit this month past. That you prevailed upon your father to brave what I cannot call the perilous wilds of Styria even in jest —for at least wilds would not kill through sheer tedium—is a proof of friendship I'll not forget. God knows there cannot be great investment in these parts—but I have not the merchant's instinct. A pity Paris had already left; he'd been blithering on about fixing up that dire crumbled old pile on Lake Garda in preparation for marriage. I rather pity whatever foolish young thing he finds with parents ready to sell her for a title and a few handfuls of gold...but perhaps he'll seek out a wealthy widow with tastes to match his instead. I'm sure the parties would be the stuff of legend.

Truly, it was good to see your face, my dear earnest friend. I had forgot what such honesty looked like. I had forgot—well, perhaps you were always so, and I simply found myself distracted by more fickle associations. Or perhaps I was simply a fool to think that a dog that once snapped at my hand could grow gentle with due care. At any rate, your visit cheered me beyond telling.

I ramble. In truth, I know not what to write, so I prattle about others and make vague reference to what I dare not set down in plain ink. The salutary effects of your company have faded too quickly; I fear I shall go mad in this place. I hated Verona, you know I did, and yet I can think of nothing else. I must escape this place.

Mercutio

* * *

_Unto Romeo Montague does Mercutio of the House of Escalus send greetings._

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore so brief upon yourself? I may close mine eyes and envision this Rosa, her white face and her black eyes—are those the glossed black of the sloe or the inconstant black of the fighter? Has life grown so staid in mine absence that you swoon for a brawler? I can tell back to you the turn of her ankle, the gown she wore to old Placentio’s ball, the merry sound of her laughter—or I could if I had read the poem you enclosed. It limps, dear Romeo, more severely than a Capulet from a whorehouse. Oh Romeo, I fear for thee without me.

Yet of yourself you say little: you are in love. Well, and where is the news in that? Did your father’s coin purchase no literacy for his son? Must I write to my lady Dragon to enquire of her son’s health? You know well that she likes me not.

What good is a rose without a prickle, sweetness with no spice to temper it? Were I a rose, you would write more than a short line; you would grow long. ~~You would~~

I have sworn since thy visit that I will only write to thee when I am sober, and so I do not write at all.

* * *

_Unto Benvolio of the House of Montague does Mercutio of the House of Escalus send greetings._

My dearest friend and soon-to-be true companion once again:

I’ve done it, Benvolio. I’ve driven them to expel me, or at least to raise the fees too high for my dear kinsman the Prince to willingly pay. I care not for the mechanism, only the effect: I am to return to Verona. I write only to you: tell not Romeo, my dear friend, for I shall surprise him from his lovelorn melancholy. What is the charm of a rose next to a player’s quick wit? I’ll cajole him from his sickness with wit and wine, and we’ll hear no more of this sighing ah me, ah my. His poetry is execrable: it will be a service to the world to divert his attention, but I’ll take that thrust for my dear Verona, and gladly.

I need not ask you to tell no others, and certainly not our surly King of Cats, although I trust you have kept him from dozing too much in my absence. No doubt he hath missed me but little.

Ah, but I have tarried too long in the writing—already I hear the jangling of men and horses in the courtyard

* * *

_Unto Benvolio of the House of Montague does Bartolomeo della Scala, rightwise Prince and Lord of all Verona, send greetings and due commendations._

Benvolio:

Amongst my nephew’s effects did we find these letters, the main part of them sealed and all unsent. We do not delude ourself that he would care for familial eye upon them and yet we find ourself moved by some sentiment that they not be simply burnt unopened, his last words left unspoken forever, when he always loved his own speech more than all else. You were his friend—you are his only friend yet living. Do with them as you wish: read them, weep over them, burn them and scatter the ashes upon the wind, and go thou with God. Let this be done.

By our hand this day,

Escalus

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Measure for Measure_.
> 
> I was chatting with drcalvin, as I often do, about how much I love epistolary fiction, but how hard it is to find characters who seem like they'd be good letter-writers. I believe she suggested Mercutio, and I have a thing for Elizabethan letters, so this was born - although with RésJ Mercutio in a historical setting I always go for a bit of a mix of Shakespearean pastiche and modern frankness, and can only hope I strike the right balance.
> 
> I debated a fair bit about language - the first draft was straight-up Elizabethan pastiche, almost entirely in intimate-thou. I ended up dialing that back and just keeping a few key lines in intimate, but leaving much of the rest of the archaic syntax. Hopefully I didn't overdo it.


End file.
